


Because You Take Life in Your Stride

by whyyesitscar



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that one little word, that one simple question, that makes everything harder. Glimpses into Brittana from the POVs of various characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You Take Life in Your Stride

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is "Because You Take Life In Your Stride" by E.E. Cummings.

It wasn’t like people didn’t know. Almost everyone who had eyes knew; Santana knew that. And that should have made it easier, right? It should have been easy to say, “Step off of Brittany S. Pierce, William McKinley High School, because she’s mine.” She practically said it with her eyes every day anyway. 

But it wasn’t easy. It was the ‘why’ behind everything that made it difficult.

> _because you take life in your stride (instead_  
>  _of scheming how to beat the noblest game  
>  a man can proudly lose, or playing dead  
>  and hoping death himself will do the same)_

Mr. Schue never asked. Not with words, anyway. (The question was there in his beady eyes, though). 

He’d gotten the call late on a Saturday, a few weeks after the alcohol debacle. He hadn’t really ever expected people to follow through on their promises, to be honest. He knew that asking people like Puck and Santana to quit drinking was unrealistic. 

So it was a complete shock when, at 1:47, Santana called him, her voice small and not at all like he was used to. She was slurring her words and whispering more quietly than he ever thought she could.

He propped himself up in bed, blinking his eyes foggily. “Santana, you have to slow down,” he muttered, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Come get us, Misser Schue, please,” Santana begged. “I don’t wan’ be at Puck’s anymore. Everyone’s dancin’ and laughin’, ‘cept for Britt—she’s sleepin’ and I just wanna sing her a lullaby in bed but I don’t think I can walk that far.”

“Okay, okay.” He wiped a hand over his face and suddenly he was back in teacher mode, the one where he fixes everything because he’s an adult. He grabbed a pad and wrote down the address, barely focusing on putting on his pants as he stumbled out the door.

They were waiting for him when he pulled up. Santana was sitting on the curb, stroking Brittany’s hair as the blonde rested in her lap. Mr. Schue parked across the street and cut the lights, smiling sadly as he watched the pair of them. There was something terribly tragic about the fact that the most human side he’d seen of Santana came only when she was drunk.

Santana roused Brittany when she saw him walking over; it took both of them to help her to the car. Mr. Schue felt drunk by proxy with all the swaying that was going on.

The drive to Santana’s house was quiet, silence punctuated only by soothing whispers and groans when he took a turn too hard. 

If you had asked him before that night, he would have bet his life savings that Brittany would be the one whispering, instead of the other way around.

To be honest, sometimes Mr. Schue was scared for Brittany. Not because she was stupid (because she wasn’t); not because she was naïve (because she wasn’t that either). He was scared because she was so free with her love, and he’d come to know that if you were so unrestricted with your freedom, it was easier for someone to come along and cage it. He knew that it was always worse when someone so pure discovered black because the world was already full of enough grey.

Mr. Schue watched the girls in his rearview mirror, watched the intimacy of their interactions, and he was surprised to realize that Santana knew it too.

It’s why he never asked.

> _because you aren’t afraid to kiss the dirt  
>  (and consequently, dare to climb the sky)_

Quinn would never admit it to anyone, but she got jealous. A lot. 

Of Shelby and how she got to keep the baby.

Of Coach Sylvester and how she went through life without caring (and it didn’t bother her that she didn’t care).

(Quinn cared).

She was jealous of Finn and how he always seemed to get the girl (who, she hated to admit, wasn’t always her).

She was jealous of Rachel, who always was the girl.

But since the beginning of high school, Quinn had been jealous of Brittany and Santana, simply for the fact that they just were, and they always had been. One rarely came without the other (and Quinn had been to enough sleepovers to mean that in every sense of the word). Alone, Santana reverted to harsh words and scathing glares. Alone, Brittany could barely get through math class because her eights looked like dancing penguins and she spent the whole period playing _Happy Feet_ in her mind.

Together, they cut class to go to the zoo to watch real penguins, and Quinn would bet anything that Santana laughed every minute.

Alone, Santana was scared. But together, they were fearless, and Quinn was jealous.

> _because a mind no other mind should try  
>  to fool has failed to fool your heart_

Puck was not as big of a player as people thought. Sure, he had hooked up with Quinn and Santana, and that was more than enough to solidify his reputation as a stud. And he scored regularly with cougars when he cleaned their pools. Most of the time, it was good to be Noah Puckerman. 

But no one really ever gave him that much credit. He slept with Quinn because he loved her; he even had some kind of bromance-type affection for Santana. Hell, he got it on with hot moms because he felt sorry for them (and, you know—they were hot). Puck was not without some deeper feelings. He could probably come up with a more substantial reason for why he’d made out with any girl. 

Except for one. Puck had one flimsy, very bad reason for why he made out with Brittany. The list was longer (and better) for why he couldn’t do that ever again. (1. Santana would hurt him. 2. Santana would hurt him. 3. He would hurt Santana. 4. Santana would really hurt him). 

It had been at a party freshmen year, right after Santana had rejected him for the first time, and right before he had mastered the studly art of looking like he didn’t care. He’d been pissed, really pissed, and he knew something was going on with the two cheerleaders. He figured it out when he had been standing in front of Brittany, trading lusty glances with Santana, only for it to crash down on him when he moved away and Santana’s eyes didn’t follow him.

But before that, before Santana had planted the seeds of a conscience in him, Puck had been extraordinarily pissed. So he’d freshened Brittany’s drink, danced with her for a while, and made out with her for even longer. It was easy to seduce her—if Brittany wasn’t dating anyone, she literally loved everybody. Most people failed to find the admirable part of that.

He knew Santana had been watching, but he wasn’t prepared for the depth of hurt in her stare. Half drunken indignation, half real sadness, all betrayal—it stung deeper than when Santana had pushed him away.

It stung so deep that Puck actually found Santana and apologized, and they reconciled and spent the rest of the night trying to be enough for each other.

Because that’s what you did for bros. You tried.

> _but most (without the smallest doubt) because  
>  no mind is quite so good you don’t conceive  
>  a better_

Rachel Berry was the best—according to Rachel Berry. She was the best at singing, the best at acting, the best at leading, She was pretty good at reading people, but that whole fiasco with revealing Quinn’s pregnancy had made her decide to take a few classes before advertising her psychic ability again. But even then she was very good going on best.

Rachel had even resolved to become the best at keeping secrets, because sometimes doing The Right Thing, the Thing that Rachel always strived to do, meant knowing how to manage silence.

When Santana and Brittany sang “Landslide,” Rachel learned from her well-intentioned but poorly-received comment by reading the fear on Santana’s face. And the next time, when Santana yelled at Brittany for the headlines in _The Muckraker_ , Rachel felt her heart cry out instead of her mouth. (It was all very romantic anyway, wasn’t it? The tragic story of two secret lovers held back by fear and the uncertainty of alienation, having to masquerade around with second-rate replacements, edging further away from true love with each day. Rachel gave herself two gold stars for keeping quiet that day—she didn’t just want to say something. She wanted to _sing_ about it). 

Rachel even let her desire to do The Right Thing fall to the wayside, and she decided not to confront Santana about her feelings, because sometimes Rachel’s right thing wasn’t actually The Right Thing. (And partially because Santana was extremely frightening when provoked).

More than anything, Rachel wanted to see everyone happy (because wasn’t that the big, Broadway end?) If Brittany and Santana’s happiness hinged in part on Rachel being quiet for now, then she could be the best at that, too.

> _and because no evil is  
>  so worse than worst you fall in hate with love_

It wasn’t like Santana wanted to push Brittany away. In fact, she was pretty sure that everything she wanted to do would always be the opposite of “away.” Everything she did was done with Brittany in mind—how could she make Brittany laugh, or gasp, or get that little-kid glint of delight in her eye? 

But above all, Santana wanted to protect Brittany. She wanted to make sure that there was always something to love in Brittany’s world, and if that meant that Santana had to step away for a while, that someone else got to make Brittany laugh and gasp and find the magic, she would. If there was anything she could possibly do, there was no question. It was done.

Santana’s worst nightmare was that somehow she would be the reason that Brittany lost faith in love. She was terrified of disappointing her. So she pushed and she pushed, constantly searching for Brittany’s limits, for the point at which her rubber band-smile snapped.

All she ever discovered was that elastic has a funny way of always coming back.

(When it came to the problem of Brittany, Santana found that loving her was both the question and the answer).

> _—human one mortally immortal i  
>  can turn immense all time’s because to why_

The day she came out to the Glee club, Santana sang a song. It could have been any song, really; any emotional, heartfelt, romantic song. She probably cried (she _knew_ Mr. Schue did). 

When Santana played that day over in her mind, she realized the song didn’t matter because every bit of her why was sitting three feet away—beaming.


End file.
